by Homer
A web she wove, all purple, double woof,
With varied flow'rs in rich embroidery,
And to her neat-hair'd maidens gave command
To place the largest caldrons on the fire,
That with warm baths, returning from the fight,
Hector might be refresh'd; unconscious she,
That by Achilles' hand, with Pallas' aid,
Far from the bath, was godlike Hector slain.
The sounds of wailing reach'd her from the tow'r;
Totter'd her limbs, the distaff left her hand,
And to her neat-hair'd maidens thus she spoke:
"Haste, follow me, some two, that I may know
What mean these sounds; my honour'd mother's voice
I hear; and in my breast my beating heart
Leaps to my mouth; my limbs refuse to move;
Some evil, sure, on Priam's house impends.
Be unfulfill'd my words! yet much I fear
Lest my brave Hector be cut off alone,
By great Achilles, from the walls of Troy,
Chas'd to the plain, the desp'rate courage quench'd,
Which ever led him from the gen'ral ranks
Far in advance, and bade him yield to none."
Then from the house she rush'd, like one distract,
With beating heart; and with her went her maids.
But when she reach'd the tow'r, where stood the crowd,
And mounted on the wall, she look'd around,
And saw the body which with insult foul
The flying steeds were dragging towards the ships;
Then sudden darkness overspread her eyes;
Backward she fell, and gasp'd her spirit away.
Far off were flung th' adornments of her head,
The net, the fillet, and the woven bands;
The nuptial veil by golden Venus giv'n,
That day when Hector of the glancing helm
Led from Eetion's house his wealthy bride.
The sisters of her husband round her press'd,
And held, as in the deadly swoon she lay.
But when her breath and spirit return'd again,
With sudden burst of anguish thus she cried:
"Hector, oh woe is me! to misery
We both were born alike; thou here in Troy
In Priam's royal palace; I in Thebes,
By wooded Placos, in Eetion's house,
Who nurs'd my infancy; unhappy he,
Unhappier I! would I had ne'er been born!
Now thou beneath the depths of earth art gone,
Gone to the viewless shades; and me hast left
A widow in thy house, in deepest woe;
Our child, an infant still, thy child and mine,
Ill-fated parents both! nor thou to him,
Hector, shalt be a guard, nor he to thee:
For though he 'scape this tearful war with Greece,
Yet nought for him remains but ceaseless woe,
And strangers on his heritage shall seize.
No young companions own the orphan boy:
With downcast eyes, and cheeks bedew'd with tears,
His father's friends approaching, pinch'd with want,
He hangs upon the skirt of one, of one
He plucks the cloak; perchance in pity some
May at their tables let him sip the cup,
Moisten his lips, but scarce his palate touch;
While youths, with both surviving parents bless'd,
May drive him from their feast with blows and taunts,
'Begone! thy father sits not at our board:'
Then weeping, to his widow'd mother's arms
He flies, that orphan boy, Astyanax,
Who on his father's knees erewhile was fed
On choicest marrow, and the fat of lambs;
And, when in sleep his childish play was hush'd,
Was lull'd to slumber in his nurse's arms
On softest couch, by all delights surrounded.
But grief, his father lost, awaits him now,
Astyanax, of Trojans so surnam'd,
Since thou alone wast Troy's defence and guard.
But now on thee, beside the beaked ships,
Far from thy parents, when the rav'ning dogs
Have had their fill, the wriggling worms shall feed;
On thee, all naked; while within thy house
Lies store of raiment, rich and rare, the work
Of women's hands; these will I burn with fire;
Not for thy need — thou ne'er shalt wear them more, —
But for thine honour in the sight of Troy."
Weeping she spoke; the women join'd her wail.
ARGUMENT.
FUNERAL GAMES IN HONOUR OF PATROCLUS.
Achilles and the Myrmidons do honour to the body of Patroclus. After the funeral feast he retires to the sea-shore, where, falling asleep, the ghost of his friend appears to him, and demands the rites of burial: the next morning the soldiers are sent with mules and waggons to fetch wood for the pyre. The funeral procession, and the offering their hair to the dead. Achilles sacrifices several animals, and lastly, twelve Trojan captives, at the pile; then sets fire to it. He pays libations to the winds, which (at the instance of Iris) rise, and raise the flame. When the pile has burned all night, they gather the bones, place them in an urn of gold, and raise the tomb. Achilles institutes the funeral games: the chariot-race, the fight of the caestus, the wrestling, the footrace, the single combat, the discus, the shooting with arrows, the darting the javelin: the various descriptions of which, and the various success of the several antagonists, make the greatest part of the book.
In this book ends the thirtieth day: the night following, the ghost of Patroclus appears to Achilles: the one-and-thirtieth day is employed in felling the timber for the pile; the two-and-thirtieth in burning it; and the three-and-thirtieth in the games. The scene is generally on the sea-shore.
BOOK XXIII.
Thus they throughout the city made their moan;
But when the Greeks had come where lay their ships
By the broad Hellespont, their sev'ral ways
They each pursu'd, dispersing; yet not so
Achilles let his Myrmidons disperse,
But thus his warlike comrades he address'd:
"My faithful comrades, valiant Myrmidons,
Loose we not yet our horses from the cars;
But for Patroclus mourn, approaching near,
With horse and car; such tribute claim the dead;
Then, free indulgence to our sorrows giv'n,
Loose we the steeds, and share the ev'ning meal."
He said; and they with mingled voices rais'd
The solemn dirge; Achilles led the strain;
Thrice round the dead they drove their sleek-skinn'd steeds,
Mourning, with hearts by Thetis grief-inspir'd;
With tears the sands, with tears the warriors' arms,
Were wet; so mighty was the chief they mourn'd.
Then on his comrade's breast Achilles laid
His blood-stain'd hands, and thus began the wail:
"All hail, Patroclus, though in Pluto's realm;
All that I promis'd, lo! I now perform;
That on the corpse of Hector, hither dragg'd,
Our dogs should feed; and that twelve noble youths,
The sons of Troy, before thy fun'ral pyre,
My hand, in vengeance for thy death, should slay."
He said, and foully Hector's corpse misus'd,
Flung prostrate in the dust, beside the couch
Where lay Menoetius' son. His comrades then
Their glitt'ring armour doff'd, of polish'd brass,
And loos'd their neighing steeds; then round the ship
Of Peleus' son in countless numbers sat,
While he th' abundant fun'ral feast dispens'd.
There many a steer lay stretch'd beneath the knife,
And many a sheep, and many a
bleating goat,
And many a white-tusk'd porker, rich in fat,
There lay extended, singeing o'er the fire;
And blood, in torrents, flow'd around the corpse.
To Agamemnon then the Kings of Greece
The royal son of Peleus, swift of foot,
Conducted; yet with him they scarce prevail'd;
So fierce his anger for his comrade's death.
But when to Agamemnon's tent they came,
He to the clear-voic'd heralds gave command
An ample tripod on the fire to place;
If haply Peleus' son he might persuade
To wash away the bloody stains of war:
But sternly he, and with an oath refus'd.
"No, by great Jove I swear, of all the Gods
Highest and mightiest, water shall not touch
This head of mine, till on the fun'ral pyre
I see the body of Patroclus laid,
And build his tomb, and cut my votive hair;
For while I live and move 'mid mortal men,
No second grief like this can pierce my soul.
Observe we now the mournful fun'ral feast;
But thou, great Agamemnon, King of men,
Send forth at early dawn, and to the camp
Bring store of fuel, and all else prepare,
That with provision meet the dead may pass
Down to the realms of night; so shall the fire
From out our sight consume our mighty dead,
And to their wonted tasks the troops return."
He said; they listen'd, and his words obey'd;
Then busily the ev'ning meal prepar'd,
And shar'd the social feast; nor lack'd there aught.
The rage of thirst and hunger satisfied,
Each to their sev'ral tents the rest repair'd;
But on the many-dashing ocean's shore
Pelides lay, amid his Myrmidons,
With bitter groans; in a clear space he lay,
Where broke the waves, continuous, on the beach.
There, circumfus'd around him, gentle sleep,
Lulling the sorrows of his heart to rest,
O'ercame his senses; for the hot pursuit
Of Hector round the breezy heights of Troy
His active limbs had wearied: as he slept,
Sudden appear'd Patroclus' mournful shade,
His very self; his height, and beauteous eyes,
And voice; the very garb he wont to wear:
Above his head it stood, and thus it spoke:
"Sleep'st thou, Achilles, mindless of thy friend,
Neglecting, not the living, but the dead?
Hasten, my fun'ral rites, that I may pass
Through Hades' gloomy gates; ere those be done,
The spirits and spectres of departed men
Drive me far from them, nor allow to cross
Th' abhorred river; but forlorn and sad
I wander through the wide-spread realms of night.
And give me now thy hand, whereon to weep;
For never more, when laid upon the pyre,
Shall I return from Hades; never more,
Apart from all our comrades, shall we two,
As friends, sweet counsel take; for me, stern Death,
The common lot of man, has op'd his mouth;
Thou too, Achilles, rival of the Gods,
Art destin'd here beneath the walls of Troy
To meet thy doom; yet one thing must I add,
And make, if thou wilt grant it, one request.
Let not my bones be laid apart from thine,
Achilles, but together, as our youth
Was spent together in thy father's house,
Since first my sire Menoetius me a boy
From Opus brought, a luckless homicide,
Who of Amphidamas, by evil chance,
Had slain the son, disputing o'er the dice:
Me noble Peleus in his house receiv'd,
And kindly nurs'd, and thine attendant nam'd;
So in one urn be now our bones enclos'd,
The golden vase, thy Goddess-mother's gift."
Whom answer'd thus Achilles, swift of foot:
"Why art thou here, lov'd being? why on me
These sev'ral charges lay? whate'er thou bidd'st
Will I perform, and all thy mind fulfil;
But draw thou near; and in one short embrace,
Let us, while yet we may, our grief indulge."
Thus as he spoke, he spread his longing arms,
But nought he clasp'd; and with a wailing cry,
Vanish'd, like smoke, the spirit beneath the earth.
Up sprang Achilles, all amaz'd, and smote
His hands together, and lamenting cried:
"O Heav'n, there are then, in the realms below,
Spirits and spectres, unsubstantial all;
For through the night Patroclus' shade hath stood,
Weeping and wailing, at my side, and told
His bidding; th' image of himself it seem'd."
He said; his words the gen'ral grief arous'd:
To them, as round the piteous dead they mourn'd,
Appear'd the rosy-finger'd morn; and straight,
From all the camp, by Agamemnon sent,
Went forth, in search of fuel, men and mules,
Led by a valiant chief, Meriones,
The follower of renown'd Idomeneus.
Their felling axes in their hands they bore,
And twisted ropes; their mules before them driv'n;
Now up, now down, now sideways, now aslope,
They journey'd on; but when they reach'd the foot
Of spring-abounding Ida, they began
With axes keen to hew the lofty oaks;
They, loudly crashing, fell: the wood they clove,
And bound it to the mules; these took their way
Through the thick brushwood, hurrying to the plain.
The axe-men too, so bade Meriones,
The follower of renown'd Idomeneus,
Were laden all with logs, which on the beach
They laid in order, where a lofty mound,
In mem'ry of Patroclus and himself,
Achilles had design'd. When all the store
Of wood was duly laid, the rest remain'd
In masses seated; but Achilles bade
The warlike Myrmidons their armour don,
And harness each his horses to his car;
They rose and donn'd their arms, and on the cars
Warriors and charioteers their places took.
First came the horse, and then a cloud of foot,
Unnumber'd; in the midst Patroclus came,
Borne by his comrades; all the corpse with hair
They cover'd o'er, which from their heads they shore.
Behind, Achilles held his head, and mourn'd
The noble friend whom to the tomb he bore.
Then on the spot by Peleus' son assign'd,
They laid him down, and pil'd the wood on high.
Then a fresh thought Achilles' mind conceiv'd:
Standing apart, the yellow locks he shore,
Which as an off'ring to Sperchius' stream,
He nurs'd in rich profusion; sorrowing then
Look'd o'er the dark-blue sea, as thus lie spoke:
"Sperchius, all in vain to thee his pray'r
My father Peleus made, and vow'd that I,
Return'd in safety to my native land,
To thee should dedicate my hair, and pay
A solemn hecatomb, with sacrifice
Of fifty rams, unblemish'd, to the springs
Where on thy consecrated soil is plac'd
Thine incense-honour'd altar; so he vow'd;
But thou the boon withhold'st; since I no more
My native land may see, the hair he vow'd,
To brave Patroclus thus I dedicate."
He said, and on his comrade's hand he laid
The locks; his act the gen'ral grief arous'd;
And now the setting sun had found them still
Indulging o'er the dead; but Peleus' son
Approaching, thus to Agamemnon spoke:
"Atrides, for to thee the people pay
Readiest obedience, mourning too prolong'd
May weary; thou then from the pyre the rest
Disperse, and bid prepare the morning meal;
Ours be the farther charge, to whom the dead
Was chiefly dear; yet let the chiefs remain."
The monarch Agamemnon heard, and straight
Dispers'd the crowd amid their sev'ral ships.
Th' appointed band remain'd, and pil'd the wood.
A hundred feet each way they built the pyre,
And on the summit, sorrowing, laid the dead.
Then many a sheep and many a slow-paced ox
They flay'd and dress'd around the fun'ral pyre;
Of all the beasts Achilles took the fat,
And cover'd o'er the corpse from head to foot,
And heap'd the slaughter'd carcases around;
Then jars of honey plac'd, and fragrant oils,
Resting upon the couch; next, groaning loud,
Four pow'rful horses on the pyre he threw;
Then, of nine dogs that at their master's board
Had fed, he slaughter'd two upon his pyre;
Last, with the sword, by evil counsel sway'd,
Twelve noble youths he slew, the sons of Troy.
The fire's devouring might he then applied,
And, groaning, on his lov'd companion call'd:
"All hail, Patroclus, though in Pluto's realm!
All that I promis'd, lo! I now perform:
On twelve brave sons of Trojan sires, with thee,
The flames shall feed; but Hector, Priam's son,
Not to the fire, but to the dogs I give."
Such was Achilles' threat, but him the dogs
Molested not; for Venus, night and day
Daughter of Jove, the rav'ning dogs restrain'd;
And all the corpse o'erlaid with roseate oil,
Ambrosial, that though dragg'd along the earth,
The noble dead might not receive a wound.
Apollo too a cloudy veil from Heav'n
Spread o'er the plain, and cover'd all the space
Where lay the dead, nor let the blazing sun
The flesh upon his limbs and muscles parch.
Yet burnt not up Patroclus' fun'ral pyre;
Then a fresh thought Achilles' mind conceiv'd:
Standing apart, on both the "Winds he call'd,
Boreas and Zephyrus, and added vows
Of costly sacrifice; and pouring forth
Libations from a golden goblet, pray'd
Their presence, that the wood might haste to burn,